The First Temptation
The First Temptation
Luke 4:1-4
Last week, we saw Jesus in the most public of settings—outside, on the banks of the Jordan River—being baptized by John. The Gospel writers disagree on who saw what and who heard what but they don’t disagree that this is Jesus’ first public appearance. By all accounts, that appearance is a giant moment of validation: the Spirit descends on him; God calls him “the beloved son;” John clearly humbles himself before Jesus. As hard as it may have been to leave his life behind, Jesus is met with a huge moment of affirmation.
Then, Jesus is driven straight into the wilderness. If the earlier message was, “Well done! You’ve done the right thing!” then the very next message is, “Prepare yourself! This is going to get very hard, very fast.” Jesus goes from the most public of moments to the most private time imaginable: in the desert, by himself, with nothing to do but ponder what’s ahead and what’s inside for the next forty days and nights. That’s a long time without food or water. That’s a long time by yourself with no distractions.
In some ways, we all can connect to this point having come through months of the pandemic. The pandemic is its own kind of wilderness. We have all been cut off from the regular routines of work, from the casual social interactions that populate our days, from the time gobbled up by our commutes. For long stretches of time, we have been cutoff from family and friends, other than the folks in our “bubbles.” We haven’t gone to dinner or to the movies or to the gym with any regularity and when we have gone, it certainly has not been stress free.
So, what did we all do? We looked for distractions. We scoured Netflix for the series we watched years ago so that we could watch it again. (Tracy and I watched all 17 seasons of E.R.!) We did puzzles and posted them on Facebook. We Zoomed until our eyes began to spin. We gardened the heck out of our yards. You name it. We watched the Bulls documentary as if we might have missed something the first time. And I will confess that I currently have some really strong feelings about the judging in the half pipe snowboarding competition at the Olympics (even though I would likely never watch snowboarding under any other circumstances.)
We miss our old lives. So, we try to construct new meanings for this time that might turn out to be legitimately meaningful. I’ve loved hiking more than ever. I’ve plowed through a ton of books. I threw away pretty much all the clutter that was in the church. However, meaningful as all those things were, we also just needed distractions. If I spend too much undistracted time by myself there might be things about me that I have to look at that I would really rather not face. Bring on the noise!
Henry Nouwen drives home this point… “As soon as we are alone, inner chaos opens up in us. This chaos can be so disturbing and so confusing that we can hardly wait to get busy again. Entering a private room and shutting the door, therefore, does not mean that we immediately shut out all our inner doubts, anxieties, fears, bad memories, unresolved conflicts, angry feelings and impulsive desires. On the contrary, when we have removed our outer distractions, we often find that our inner distractions manifest themselves to us in full force. We often use the outer distractions to shield ourselves from the interior noises. This makes the discipline of solitude all the more important.” “The discipline of solitude…” that’s quite a phrase.
Part of what we have been invited to see during the pandemic is how oblivious and busy we used to be. A lot of us had built these frenetic lives, in part because we were required to prove how busy and committed we were at work and at other times because slowing down just frightened us. We weren’t sure that slowing down was something was possible. If we just stayed busy, if we were constantly in motion, we could always tell ourselves, “Everything will be okay when I finally have the chance to sit down.” Of course, our worst fears were confirmed when we were required to go from 100 miles per hour to 0 in such a brutal and jarring pandemic.
Think of it this way…When I was a child, we were going to the moon. I adored the astronauts and the fanfare of those missions. The critical moment that I remember was when the space capsule re-entered the earth’s atmosphere. The spacecraft would be put into descent and the heat shield would absorb the friction of re-entry. The announcers would remind us that even the tiniest flaw in the shield would be highlighted in that glowing red shield. It seems that an incredible amount of heat is generated when you go from thousands of miles and hour to a free fall re-entry.
We all have those shields that protect our tender places both from others and from ourselves. As we fly along through life we seem coated in teflon. Then, for whatever reason, we are forced to slow down: we get sick; we face a personal crisis; we have to change our routines. Suddenly, our deepest struggles, are exposed to us and to the whole world. They glow red hot. If you are vulnerable to depression or anxiety or addiction, watch those things come to the foreground. If you would to do anything to avoid quiet, we will all be watching you make as much “noise” as you can. Is anger your thing? Well, join the bloody fray of people who have spent the last two years looking for people to blame. We’re human. We are broken. We carry this horrible, worn-out Samsonite luggage with us wherever we go. To our dismay, the wheels on that luggage just keep going, “Click…click…click” as we drag our stuff behind us.
Of course, if we actually had the foresight to practice that “discipline of solitude” that Henry Nouwen mentioned prior to the pandemic, then we might have been a step ahead. We might have a sense of what our issues are and of how to respond to those issues. We might be “fluent” enough in reading our hot buttons that we can hear what they exist to tell us—about ourselves, about our world, maybe even about God’s presence in this world. Our own brokenness might be some of the best clues we get to navigating this life, if we are brave enough to do something other than just look away. Of course, it is awfully hard to try to start listening in the midst of a global crisis.
Today, we meet Jesus in the middle of his personal crisis. Last week, he had a great day at the end of some tough times. He had to leave his family and friends and his responsibilities behind because he was being called into this ministry. That must have been terrible! Is there anything worse having to do something that the people you love, who love you back, are simply never going to understand? Jesus shows up at the River Jordan, though, and his calling is confirmed. The Holy Spirit descends. God speaks. He is declared to be God’s “beloved.” How great would it be if when we finally mustered up the courage to do the right and faithful thing, we were validated like that?
Of course, almost as soon as this giant moment of validation happens, all hell breaks loose. We are told that Jesus is driven into the wilderness. He takes nothing. He has no real idea why he is there. It is a terrible, barren place. And he’s there not for one uncomfortable night (which most of us would not make it through!) No, he’s there for forty days and forty nights. (Remember, “forty” is the Bible’s way of saying, “For a long time…”)
Now, there is an overwhelming symbolism to this moment that we have to notice. The earliest ancestors of our faith, who were brought out of slavery, wandered in the wilderness for forty years. The insider joke was that there were not actually “forty years of wilderness” to wander, a point that is acknowledged when we learn that they went “the long way” because they needed that extra time in the wilderness. Through those years, these people were strengthened for the life ahead of them. Their faith was honed in that barren place. They were fed and led by God and were radically dependent on God, whether they liked it or not. They also doubted their faith and their leaders and spent their fair share of time in utter despair. Then, one day, they arrived at the promised land.
Faith isn’t easy. It wasn’t easy for our ancestors in faith. It isn’t going to be easy for Jesus. It’s not any easier for us. However, there is a clarity and preparation and even a “toughening” that only happens when we struggle—mightily. The struggles are hard but they are never—not for one second—without meaning.
“So, Jesus…welcome to the wilderness!” As we have said earlier, what we discover in the wilderness is our own baggage, the stuff that goes with us wherever we go, even though we used to think the problem was our kids or our spouse or our job or some politician. Our “stuff” shows up, yells, “Surprise! It’s me again!” and we cry out, “Oh no…” That stuff always tempts us to do what we’ve done before, the very choices that always make things worse.
In our text, the tempter…the translation of “Satan”…shows up. Whether you give the source of temptation a name or not, temptation always arrives when we stand in hard times. Jesus has barely eaten a thing. This man is starving. It’s no surprise that the first temptation that would come his way was to focus on his own needs: "Turn these stones into bread!” Satisfy yourself!
Let’s be clear. Jesus would care a great deal about hungry people. He would sit down and dine with anyone. He would insist that his disciples share what they had with others. The greatest miracle that he performs might be the “Feeding of the Five Thousand" when what seemed like not nearly enough food turned out to be more than enough, after all. Food mattered. Sharing mattered. That’s not the point. With 38 million Americans (12 million children!) who are food insecure with little access to an affordable nutritious diet, do not think for one minute that Jesus would look at them and say, “Man cannot live by bread alone!” He would know from his own experience how hard it was to do anything when you’re hungry and would look us in the eye and say, “For God’s sake, feed them!” God’s children were not created to live in the overwhelming anxiety over feeding their children. Feed them then we’ll talk about faith.
In the wilderness, Jesus realizes that even in this moment of great personal need—of his aching stomach— that there has to be more to his ministry than taking care of himself. Honestly, it’s a dance we all do at times, “I’ll take care of ‘me’ and ‘mine’ first and then we’ll see what’s left over.” If we learn to share, there will be enough which will work as long we can believe that enough can actually be enough. Jesus will be radically insecure for the rest of his life—a homeless, itinerant preacher and healer, dependent on the kindness of others but, in the end, just completely dependent on the grace of God: “Life has to be about more than food. Something has to be more important than my comfort.
Think about it…This man ate the wrong foods. He ate with the wrong people. He taught a hungry crowd not to hoard but to share. He refused to turn stones into bread, but one day he would take a loaf of bread and break it and bless it and turn it into the concrete expression of the unconditional love of God. May we all feed the hungry and find ourselves nourished and strengthened by God’s love.